This is an Octain, a form of poetry devised by Luke Prater, which is also the focus of a workshop today (Monday 16th May 2011) over at One Stop Poetry. An Octain is a poem of 8 lines, made up of two tercets and a couplet, with each line comprising of 8 syllables (usually adopting iambic or trochaic tetrameter). The rhyme scheme is A/b/b | a/c-c/a | b/A, where A is a refrain (the first line is repeated closely or identically as the final line) and c-c is a slice of internal rhyme. I first tried my hand at an Octain back in January with a slightly more light-hearted affair than this one. That poem, on the subject of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, can be found here. To read more fantastic attempts at Prater's Octain, head over to the workshop, where there is a Mister Linky widget at the bottom with links to other poets' Octains.

Tuesday, 3 May 2011

Quick, there's that star that looks like our rotten egg-blue again.The cloud in front has returned to his seat,and we've been given a good view again.

I didn't see you'd left your eyes at your feet.

Which is why I didn't know you'd stood in the quicksand-I'd gone first up the ladder and assumed that you'd followed.Why didn't you say anything as you sank like bricks andwhy were you dribbling? You hadn't even swallowed,

let alone called out for help, and now the excess enzymesyour mouth had worked around the clock to get outwere making a break for it down your cocktail dress in limes.The fen wasn't going to claim those, I had no doubt.

All of a sudden, all this time I'd been bogged down with answersto questions I hadn't tried to understand.Like what was before? What were the chances?And could I truly discount an invisible Hand?

It's a good a theory as any, what take are we on here?Can't be the first time, or at least I hope not,because then we'll know how to rebuild it all in a few years,when the sun decides that's it and murders the fucking lot.

That's when I'd looked back at you, and it hit me from the East,that you are precious and I hoped find you again in the remake.We're just blips in time, but we're that at least,so let's leave the forces to themselves, I fancy a milkshake.

I snapped my ladder and you grabbed hold of my wood.You fused splinters but left them in like mine.The cloud stood up to watch us leave and the egg was gone for good.I didn't mind, my star was beside me in a quagmire brine,

nearly lost but found all the more for it.I walked it home, holding its peppered hand,and it squeezed mine tightly, still wordless, though it winced a bit,and I left my questions in the quicksand.

Sunday, 1 May 2011

Did he, as the leader, really lead?Or did he mistake breadcrumb for seedof thoroughinnovation, deceived by her grief-borne greedand coaxed along a merry path at speedto desert pains? Gone.He insisted she wouldn't have missed him.

He showed her scrawls she'd painted,and directed movie scenes in his mind, taintedwith the slowsongs they'd danced to drunk and dainty,until a spiced rum, not unlike her, faintedwhilst its blood shonein his body like some alien confidence.

And he spoke to her in French,like an infatuated teacher fallen from the fence.Even though,she never allowed him to finish the sentence,arrive at the word that sounded best when tense-the clincher one-before she kissed him.

The way she coiled herself around his core,tugged and toiled and teased beforeletting go,leaving him open-mouthed in request for encore,told him she already knew morethan she let on,so it shouldn't have been such a surprise consequence;

her letting go for the final time,not allowing him to finish his sentence,as he pleaded for one more crumb,whilst her credits rolled.